“Where did you and Bertie find those clothes, Nell?” Peter asked.
“I am Queen Eleanor,” Nell announced, clutching Bertie with one hand and pinching the hem of her skirt with the other, “and this is Sir Bertram of Harris, and we do not speak with pheasants.”
“That’s peasants, Nell.” Peter had known it would be a mistake for Dad to read the King Arthur stories to her, but that was not the immediate problem. The immediate problem was that Nell had dressed Bertie in Mum’s favorite silk scarf and herself in Mum’s pink flowery dress and white high-heeled shoes, and Dad was due home at any minute.
“You must call me Your Majesty,” Nell corrected him. “And you must call Bertie Sir Ber—”
“Nell, stop playing.”
“I am Queen—”
“Nell.”
“Auntie Bea?” Nell spoke in her own voice, her eyes darting to the parlor door.
Peter shook his head, relieved. Nell was cooperative enough once he got her attention, but Queen Eleanor could be stubborn as a mule.
“No,” Peter explained, “those clothes. It’ll make Dad sad to see them.”
“Will it?” Nell conferred briefly with Bertie before asking the inevitable: “Why?”
“Because they’re Mum’s. They’ll remind Dad of her.”
“And that will make him sad?”
“Yes,” Peter replied patiently, “that will make him very sad.” He considered telling Nell about the window, but decided against it. Queen Eleanor might turn it into a royal proclamation. “Come along, Nell. Help me pack those things up again and I’ll find you and Bertie something else to play with.”
“Something beautiful?”
He nodded. “Something beautiful.” Peter unwound Bertie’s scarf, then helped Nell step out of the high heels and slipped the dress up and over her head. He was pleased to see a kelly-green jumper and blue dungarees underneath. With Nell, he was never sure what to expect.
He followed her back to the storeroom, where she’d pried open one of the boxes in which Dad had packed Mum’s things. After folding the dress and scarf, he laid them reverently on top of the other clothes, dusted the bottoms of the shoes on his pantleg, and placed them, soles up, atop the scarf. He closed the box, then turned to scan the storeroom.
“Nell,” he said, as a plan began to take shape, “do you and Bertie remember the story Dad read about the Romans?”
“And the lions?” Nell asked, brightening. “And the chariots and the swords and—”
“And the noble Romans in their beautiful white gowns?”
“Yes, we remember.” Nell nodded eagerly.
“Well,” said Peter, plucking a clean sheet from the stack on top of the tumble-dryer, “those gowns were called togas. Only the richest and most beautiful Romans were allowed to wear them.” Peter thought he might be stretching the truth a bit here, but never mind. He draped the sheet over Nell’s left shoulder, then swept it around to her right one.
“And they wore them to see the lions,” Nell said dreamily, reaching for a pillowcase with which to adorn Bertie, “and the chariots and the swords and ...”
Peter backed out of the storeroom as Nell’s eyes. took on that familiar, faraway look. That should hold her until supper. He could refold the linen after she and Bertie had gone to bed.
Peter paused on his way back to the kitchen. Turning slowly, he approached the door to his father’s workroom. Sometimes he needed to look in, to remind himself of the reason Dad had left so much of the work to him. Carefully, quietly, he turned the knob, opening the door just far enough to peek inside.
There were the racks of colored glass Dad planned to use in the duke’s window, and the packet of photographs the duke had sent. His father had shown him the photographs of the window, explaining how he would clean it up and make it good as new. His father hadn’t explained all of it, but he hadn’t needed to, because Peter understood.
Peter had heard the rector explain it to some visitors, not long after Mum had died, how the soul was like a window with God’s light shining through. Auntie Beatrice had got it wrong, saying that Mum’s soul would spend eternity in heaven. Peter knew that it was only waiting there, waiting for Dad to make this place for it on earth, this perfect place of rainbow colors, where God’s light would shine forever.
2
Bransley Manor was the first stop on Emma’s meticulously planned itinerary. She’d learned of Bransley at a gardening seminar and toured its grounds once before, with Richard. She’d been enchanted by the avenue of monkey-puzzle trees, Richard by the hedge maze beyond the pond. Bransley Manor wasn’t known for its massed azaleas, but Emma had included it on her tour nonetheless. A one-hour visit would break up the drive from London to Plymouth.
Emma parked her rental car beside an ancient black Morris Minor, the sole occupant of the manor’s small parking area. Bransley was an inconspicuous British gem, well off the tour buses’ beaten track, and after a whirlwind week of theater in London Emma relished the prospect of having the grounds to herself. Removing her neatly printed itinerary from her shoulder bag, she made a careful X beside the first entry, then took a moment to savor the scene.
The monkey puzzles were just as she remembered them, thorny and twisted and eccentrically grand. The fritillaria borders were new, though, and she wasn’t sure she approved. The spiky topknots seemed too dramatic for the setting, and that particular shade of orange clashed resoundingly with the buttery tones of the stone gateposts. If she were head gardener here—
“Everything all right, ma’am?”
Emma started. A young man was standing a few yards away from her car, hunched over and peering at her, a mud-encrusted trowel dangling from one hand.
“Can I help you, ma‘am?” He was wearing a tan shirt and tight jeans, and his auburn hair glinted penny-bright in the sun. He was no more than twenty, brown-eyed, freckle-faced, and well muscled, and his voice held the detached politeness that a well-brought-up young man might show to the elderly or infirm. It was the constantly reiterated “ma’am” that did it. He might as well call me “Granny,” Emma thought.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” he inquired.
“No, thank you,” said Emma. “I know exactly where I am.”
“Good enough,” the young man said. “Hope you enjoy your visit, ma’am.” With a courteous smile, he walked past Emma’s car and disappeared between the gateposts. Watching the sway of his narrow hips, Emma felt a wave of self-pity wash over her. Would it have been such a terrible moral compromise, she wondered dismally, to have touched up her mousy-brown hair with something livelier, blonder?
Catching sight of herself in the rearview mirror, Emma paused to take stock. Was her nose a bit too long, her jaw a touch too strong to be called beautiful? Had long hours in the garden traced fine lines across her forehead, crow’s feet around her clear gray eyes? Were her wire-rim glasses dowdy and out of date? Was she?
We can’t all be fairy princesses, she thought glumly. Nor would we want to! As self-pity veered toward anger, Emma closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and sought refuge in wry humor. “Well, Granny,” she murmured, glancing at her watch, “better get out your cane and start cracking. Time waits for no woman.”
Bransley’s airy profusion of wallflowers, columbines, and tulips should have sent Emma’s spirits soaring, but the longer she strolled its paths, the lower her spirits sank. By the time she reached the hedge maze, tucked away beyond the pond, it was as though a gray cloud had settled over her. She stood in the entrance to the maze, remembering Richard’s shout of triumph when he’d reached the center, and knew that her return to Bransley Manor had been a mistake.
The obvious remedy was to leave at once and never come back, but as she turned to go, the young man with the trowel appeared on the far side of the pond. Emma gasped, then scurried into the maze, paying no attention to its twists and turns, thinking only that she’d rather spend the summer lost among the hornbeams than face the young man’s polite smile again.
Once safely out of sight, though, Emma began to enjoy herself. She had a retentive memory and was fond of puzzles. In no time at all, she was entering the small clearing that marked the center of the maze, where she looked up in triumph, blinked, and shook her head to clear it.
She was losing her mind. First she’d let a musclebound boy send her into an emotional tailspin, and now she was seeing double. Removing her glasses, she passed a weary hand over her eyes, then ventured another look into the clearing.
They were still there: two frail, elderly women who were more alike than any two peas Emma had ever encountered in any one pod. They were dressed identically, from the tips of their white crocheted gloves to the toes of their sensible shoes. They held matching handbags—the word “reticules” flitted through Emma’s mind—and wore matching straw sunhats tied with wide lavender ribbons. They were seated side by side on the stone bench beneath the chestnuts, looking at Emma with bright bird’s eyes and smiling identical smiles.
“Good afternoon,” said one.
“Such a lovely day,” said the other.
Was it possible to hear double? The women’s voices were as indistinguishable as their faces. “Y-yes, it is,” Emma managed. “A lovely day.”
“I am Ruth Pym and this is my sister...”
“... Louise.” Louise patted the bench encouragingly. “Won’t you join us? There’s room enough...”
“... for three.” As Emma sat between them, Ruth continued, “We’re from a small village called Finch and we’re here for the day ...”
“... with the vicar. It is a bit far for us ...”
“...to drive on our own. Our motorcar, you see, is somewhat ...”
“... antiquated.”
Emma waited to be sure it was her turn to speak, then introduced herself.
“You are an American?” Ruth inquired. “And you have come all this way to see Bransley? How splendid. Are you by any chance ...”
“... a horticulturalist?” Louise finished.
“An amateur,” Emma replied. “I have a garden at home and I love it dearly, but I pay for it by working with computers.”
“But that is fascinating!” Ruth exclaimed. “You must be a very intelligent...”
“... and capable young woman.”
“Thanks,” said Emma, vaguely comforted by the thought that, in the eyes of these two elderly maidens, she was still a young woman. “It’s an interesting field, but I need something else to balance it. That’s why I started gardening.”
“I can well believe that,” said Ruth. “Computers, we have heard, are so frightfully ...”
“... clean.”
“A thing that cannot be said of gardens!”
The two sisters chuckled at Ruth’s small joke and Emma laughed with them, relaxing as they began a steady stream of garden gossip. They asked where she’d been and where she planned to go, eagerly soliciting her opinions on pesticides, mulches, and garden designs, but offering few of their own. The Pyms were so friendly, their interest was so genuine, and their enthusiasm so contagious, that well over an hour had passed before Emma even thought to glance at her watch.
“I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,” she said, getting reluctantly to her feet, “but I have a long drive ahead of me and I really should be going.”
Ruth smiled reassuringly. “Of course you should, dear.”
“And may we say what a pleasure it has been to have this little chat with you,” said Louise. “Ruth and I do so enjoy coming to ...”
“...Bransley Manor. One meets such...”
“... interesting people.”
“I love Bransley, too,” agreed Emma, “yet, even here—”
“Ah, you noticed.” The sisters looked at her expectantly.
“The fritillaries?” Emma asked. She sat back down again. She’d been dying to get this off her chest. “It’d be hard not to notice them. Fritillaria meleagris might’ve worked in a pinch, but imperialis? That shade of orange—” Emma pulled herself up short, put a hand to her mouth, and blushed. “I’m sorry. That must sound pretty pretentious, coming from me. I’m sure the head gardener had a good reason for making the change.”
“If he did, he was unable to explain it to us,” said Louise firmly. “The Fritillaria imperialis was...”
“... a grave error in judgment. We have spoken with the head gardener...”
“... dear Monsieur Melier, and he quite sees our point.”
“We hope...”
“... indeed, we expect...”
“... to find them replaced with something more suitable next year.”
Emma would have given a lot to have eavesdropped on the Pyms’ conversation with dear Monsieur Melier. She suspected that the poor man had caved in before he knew what had hit him. Gallic spleen would be no match for the Pyms’ relentless British politeness.
As the sisters lapsed into a comfortable silence, Emma changed her mind about leaving. Keeping to her schedule seemed suddenly less important than sitting quietly with these two pleasant spinsters, watching the linnets dart in and out of the hornbeams while the shadows grew longer and the afternoon slipped away. Besides, she could always make up the lost time tomorrow.
“You are presently traveling to Cornwall?” Ruth inquired after a few moments had passed.
Emma nodded. “I have the whole summer ahead of me and I’ve never been there before and I... I thought some fresh horizons would do me good.”
“Of course they wih,” said Ruth. “Cotehele is particularly lovely at this time of year.”
“And Killerton Park,” Louise added. “You must not miss the azaleas at Killerton Park. Great banks of them, my dear...”
“... around an oriental temple.”
“Most striking.”
“The azaleas at Killerton Park are on my itinerary,” Emma confirmed.
Another silence ensued. Again, Ruth was the first to break it.
“Might we recommend one other garden?” she asked.
“It is not well known,” said Louise.
“It is not, in fact, open to the public,” admitted Ruth.
“Then how would I get in to see it?” Emma asked.
“The owner is a friend of ours, my dear. Young Grayson Alexander...”
“... the duke of Penford. A delightful young man. We met him quite by accident. His automobile ran off the road ...”
“... directly in front of our house...”
“... straight through the chrysanths ...”
“...and the birdbath. So exciting.” Louise sighed with pleasure. “He sent buckets of chrysanths to us afterwards, as well as a new birdbath, and ...”
“... kind Mr. Bantry to roll the lawn and Mr. Gash to repair the wall. We later discovered ...”
“... that we had a dear friend in common. Most unexpected ...”
“... for ours is a very small village.”
“We have kept up with him ever since.”
“It was. unfortunate about his papa, of course.”
“Poor as a church mouse ...”
“... and proud as a lion.”
“Gone now, poor man ...”
“... and now Grayson has the title...”
“... and the estate...”
“... and the worries that come with it. You really must stop by ...”
“... as a favor to us. Penford Hall is on your way...”
“... and you would do us a great service if you would bring him word of our...”
“... continued warm regard.” “Penford Hall?” Emma asked, her eyes widening. “Isn’t that where—”
“Yes, my dear,” Ruth broke in, “but that was long ago and it has all been sorted out...”
“... as we knew it would be. Such a thoughtful young man could not possibly be guilty ...”
“... of truly serious wrongdoing. Here, we’ll send a note with you ...”
“... a little note of introduction.”
Ruth opened her handbag and produced a calling
card, while Louise opened hers and withdrew a fountain pen. They each wrote something on the back of the card, then handed it to Emma.
“Now, you must promise us that you will look in on our young friend.”
“And you must visit us on your way back to London.”
“The vicar will be able to find Finch for you on one of his maps.”
“He will be able to direct you to Penford Hall as well.”
“He is clever with maps. He has scores of them in his glovebox ...”
“... and he used every last one to bring us down from Finch today.”
“Come along,” said Ruth. The Pym sisters stood and Emma stood with them. “Let us find the dear man.”
Emma accompanied the two ladies to the car park, where they found the vicar dozing peacefully in the backseat of the Morris Minor. He insisted on presenting Emma with an ancient roadmap, so creased with use that she was afraid it might fall apart in her hands, upon which he marked the location of Penford Hall.
She thanked them all, promised to stop in Finch on her way back to London, and waved them off in a flurry of maps as they began their return journey. When they’d passed from view, Emma looked down at the card in her hand. On the back, the sisters had written:
This is our dear friend, Emma.
She knows gardens.
The parallel lines of curticued script were identical.
3
“Isn’t that where Lex Rex died?”
Mrs. Trevoy, the matronly widow who ran the guest house where Emma had spent the night, leaned so far over the breakfast table that the frills on her apron brushed the top of Emma’s teapot. She answered Emma’s question in a confidential murmur, presumably to avoid disturbing the honeymoon couple breakfasting at the far end of the small dining room. Glancing at the self-absorbed pair, Emma thought that nothing short of cannon fire would have distracted them, but she appreciated Mrs. Trevoy’s sensitivity and kept her own voice down.
Aunt Dimity and the Duke Page 3
